


A Tension

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: M/M, Patented LOUD ANGRY ROBOTNIK APPROVAL, agent stone's wildly successful though turgid 26-month tenure, cone squeezing area, what a very normal non sequitur referring to your assistant's inevitable depature is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Do you know why I won't miss you when you're gone? Human beings are unreliable and stupid, and I care very little about them! But my machines are diligent, relentless... They're everything to me.
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Comments: 13
Kudos: 111





	A Tension

He’s got both feet through the door when the voice lances into him.

“It’s as disrespectful to be early as it is to be late.”

It’s 06:45 on Day One. Stone’s feet snap to attention so fast the heels of his new shiny shoes click.

He did not mean to do that.

Dr. Robotnik sits in the center of the room with one ankle on the opposite knee and his long, gloved fingers steepled together before his face. He tilts his head back as he watches Stone’s reaction, then narrows his eyes when Stone hastily straightens out his gaze to the middle distance.

“...not promising. Military background, is it? Don’t answer that. Of course you are.” The doctor snaps out an arm, pointing the way Stone came. “You can turn yourself right back through that door and wait until your 07:00 start time. Go on. Double time, MARCH.”

Stone’s dizzy on the other side of the door before he knows where he is. He blinks, trying to regain his sense of his own body again.

… ho-lee smokes. He hasn’t snapped-to like that since he was 17.

He watches his watch for fifteen minutes before he dares to try again. At 07:00:05 on Day One, he dares to set foot in the lab again.

He’s greeted by a slimmer, sexier, terrifyingly nimble HAL-9000 scanning him with its red eye. It emits a probe and stabs at his face. He has to open his mouth or lose a tooth.

“Let’s not bore me with your irrelevant personal details,” Dr. Robotnik says, standing up now and consulting his holoscreens as the robot scans him. Stone’s blood type appears on screen. “I already know everything I want to know. Hm. Two bullets still embedded. Negligible lead poisoning, and the scar tissue has knit well. A titanium intramedullary rod, five years old. Assuming you last long enough, you’re going to want to get that looked at in a day or so; my magnets don’t always play nicely. If your leg aches it is because they’re trying to pull it out.”

The robot finishes its work, retracts the probe and obediently bobs across the lab. It deposits the probe into a waiting specimen container and then hovers at the doctor’s shoulder, calm and complacent.

Dr. Robotnik pats it with a distracted hand. After a moment or two, he leans back against his desk and crosses his arms over his chest.

Stone’s heart seizes. Got-damn. Commander Walters told him it was a challenging assignment, but the briefing did not prepare him for this. Every single thing about the doctor — the voice that reached in and grabbed Stone by the brainstem, the eyes boring holes in his skin, the poisonous red hints in his black clothing — everything screams how lethal this man is.

He looks… Stone’s brain splutters a little.

Actually, he looks…

Well.

Stressed, really.

“Agent Skinwaste, do you know why you were sent here?”

He straightens up a little more. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Dr. Robotnik snarls at him. Not in words. In an inhuman snarl, and then he speaks. “No! I will not have some khaki-booted jingoist li’l screamin’ eaglet in my lab. In fact, let me explain something to you.”

He’s across the lab in a second. If Stone’s knees were obeying him and not his new boss, he’d probably be on his ass. Dr. Robotnik stops with his nose two inches from Stone’s. There’s nowhere safe to look. He’s at attention all over again.

“Every single person you’ve ever ‘sirred’ in your insignificant little life has been so vastly and incomprehensibly beneath me that to call me ‘sir’ and imply I’m on a level with them is ultimately as appropriate as pissing in my mouth. So here’s the deal, soldier boy.”

The doctor. Takes a step. Closer.

He smells like ozone. Like bottled lightning. Stone is so screwed.

“Call me ‘sir’ again, and you’re out. Easy enough even for a baby fascist to understand, huh? If you wanna stay here, and in one piece, I strongly recommend you scrap the boot-licking Junior ROTC lingo and address me as ‘doctor.’ Capiche?”

Stone wheezes. “Capiche, doctor.”

“It can learn!” the doctor brays, whirling away. “Ain’t that something. They’ve given me a real live one for one-hundred-and-five, gals!”

Stone scans the room. The doctor’s addressing— oh. The rather large collection of flying HALs resting on racks and shelves at the back of the lab.

“So now that we understand each other perfectly, agent, open your mouth and tell me what it is you think you’re here to do.”

Scrapping the boot-licking lingo probably extends to standing like a normal person. Stone’s legs shakily unclench. He flexes his hands and takes a breath. Stammering about standard bodyguard and assistant responsibilities is probably not going to go well. He can do a little better than that, surely.

… maybe he’ll just keep it simple.

“I’m here to do what you tell me to do, doctor.”

Dr. Robotnik cuts a look over his shoulder. He skims Stone up and down, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, well. You got that one. Keep it up and you might just last the week.”

“... thank you, doctor. Do you have any standing—” don’t say orders don’t say orders “—directions for me?”

Dr. Robotnik snorts. He flicks his coat tails out of the way and takes his seat again, rapidly typing on two separate keypads. One’s in Mandarin. The other isn’t.

“Hilariously enough they’ve told me you want to work in intelligence. Why don’t you get some exercise? Familiarize yourself with the building, without touching anything or shedding too many skin flakes. Find a position in which you can respond to emails and complete reports with minimum inconvenience to me.” The doctor wiggles his shoulders in an exquisitely sarcastic little ripple. “Snuggle right on in. Make yourself at home.”

“... uh… y-yes. Thanks? Thank you.”

“Obviously I’m joking. Get out, whatsyourname.”

Stone staggers into the hallway with a head full of white noise, still at-attention in more ways than one.

But what else is he supposed to? He holds his folder over his zipper and goes exploring.

Some agents have left in tears after 45 seconds. He only gets screamed at twice that day.

Job’s a goodun.

* * *

The first three weeks aren’t the worst he’s ever experienced. Back when he was undercover, he’d worked for men who wouldn’t take you on until you'd killed a relative.

By comparison, Dr. Robotnik is a cream puff. Most of the time he treats Stone like nothing more than a loose floor tile, to be occasionally tripped over and cursed; although that does make the doctor’s sudden razor-sharp attention and flamboyant temper even more impossible to get used to. It’s outrageous. Unnatural.

In fact, it’s kind of… fun.

Stone will be over it in no time, of course. It’s just life with diplomats telling on him: getting through a performance review with them had always been like pulling teeth. The doctor’s clear and passionate directions are at least easy to follow. He doesn’t value Stone’s intelligence, which is a bummer, but that does mean he doesn’t expect Stone to read his mind.

Robotnik’s inner machinations might be inexpressible and undefinable, but for everything else he’s an open book. He refers to his drones as his babies, gals, kiddos, little monsters. He alludes to the cold, hard pallet he slept on at the orphanage. He talks with post-traumatic vivacity about the last time someone hit him. He doesn’t appear to hide a thing.

And that’s great! In addition to completing his duties to perfection for the doctor, Stone is meant to be relaying “status updates” to headquarters about the intricacies of Dr. Robotnik’s research. Having the doctor remain semi-oblivious to him should make the actual intelligence-collection part of Stone’s job easier, but it turns out that writing reports about this man is like trying to butcher a star. He doesn’t know where to start his incisions, much less parcel him out.

All he knows with any certainty is that he does not have the proper background to parse any of the doctor's research. What insight can he hope to have that Dr. Robotnik's one-hundred-and-four previous assistants didn’t?

He keeps circling back to his first and most enduring impression: The doctor is stressed.

Although ‘stressed’ seems too light a word for it. What Stone initially took to be a longer-than-average manic phase he could support the doctor through turns out to be nothing of the kind. It's his fundamentally abnormal normal. The speed and power of Dr. Robotnik's brilliant mind does not appear to be entirely under the doctor’s control. If anything, he seems to be under the sway of his own brain, and he works like a man determined to wreck himself. It's like asking a match to ignite but not to burn.

Stone has tried to keep up. After his second 40-hour shift Robotnik called the duty guards and had Stone escorted out on a stretcher. His deprivation-mad “not so young as I used to be” didn’t butter many parsnips for a man almost two decades his senior. He's just not built to operate at the doctor's level, let alone shoulder some of the burden.

But it’s not like there’s anyone else to step in, either. After four months Stone's reasonably sure there’s no mistress or a cabana boy tucked away in a love nest. He has no family. And not even the state the doctor serves cares for him; not if they’ve got Stone trying to report back with intimate details.

So. Well. Stone lied, before. He’s not just here to do whatever the doctor tells him to, although he is very here for that. He’s here to protect and assist an essential and dangerous asset, and report to headquarters about him, in that order.

Protection from himself counts, too.

* * *

He starts with little improvements. The doctor makes it easy for him. For all that Robotnik is a rare, wild sort of creature, he’s accepted Stone into his space. He ignores him as another minor annoyance. He doesn’t seem to register that Stone is in any way up to something.

It’s exciting and fun; like hiding bombs somewhere secret and sly or slipping down the stairs to tuck presents under the Christmas tree.

He’s always been ahead of the email game, rapidly firing off responses and queries and generally guarding the doctor’s inbox like an NHL goalie. Now he starts delegating and networking, building connections between groups and individuals who can communicate with each other to hash details. He sets up protocols and standard templates. 

Stone makes sure that the security systems have all of the regular personnel's information on file, so they don't need to be manually escorted in and out. He sets up inventory and schedules restocking weeks in advance. He takes meetings with other departments and prepares short summary reports that hit the doctor's inbox at 07:00 every morning, always with a carefully-curated gif to accompany them.

He gets email-opened notifications once, twice. Then every single day of the week, all in a row. 

He compiles a glossary. He attends coffee hours. He prepares all forms and official reports so a swipe of the doctor's pen is all that is required to file.

He gets bolder still. And he gets caught.

When Dr. Robotnik realizes he’s routed all non-essential conference calls from the doctor’s schedule to his own, the doctor screams at him for five solid minutes.

“DO YOU THINK I’M AN IDIOT? DO YOU THINK I WOULDN’T NOTICE THAT YOU’VE DONE SOMETHING SO EXCEPTIONALLY USEFUL?” the doctor roars, tendons standing out in his neck. “I’M NOT OBLIVIOUS AND I’M NOT INCAPABLE OF GRATITUDE, STONE. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. YOU’VE FREED UP A SUBSTANTIAL AMOUNT OF TIME I CAN USE FAR MORE PRODUCTIVELY THAN BEFORE!”

If Stone weren’t well on his way before, the stubborn snap of the doctor’s jaw is enough to make it all worth it.

* * *

Stone’s no dietician. He’s had his share of MREs and bulking/cutting cycles and now it’s all he can do to keep an eye on his macros. It’s easy enough to do the same for the doctor.

He’s pleased with what he finds. For all that he seems to disdain the human body and refuses to interrupt work for trivialities, the doctor isn’t irresponsible. He’s a healthy 6’2”, 56 year old man with a decent diet. He skips meals, but Stone’s pretty sure that’s a function of timing, not pickiness. When he remembers to eat, the doctor eats fast, gulping anything nourishing like the hungry child he must’ve once been.

Stone can do a little better for him than that, though.

The doctor’s tastes are hard to pin down for all that he’s vocal about his other opinions. Fine cheeses seem to appeal. Fresh brioche. Clementines, meticulously peeled and left in a tidy spot out of the way for him.

Once, the fruit starts to go off, unnoticed and ignored. Stone takes it as a sign of success. No one else could ever slip such a thing into the doctor’s space unnoticed. The doctor has such easy confidence in his world, his lab, his assistant. He can turn off his internal security system and focus, when Stone is here to take care of things for him.

Still. Stone does like recognition, just as much as the next guy. That's why he runs his little experiments.

13:00. “Agent Hang brought chapssalddeok, doctor.” Results: nil. With his goggles on and an acetylene torch in hand, Stone can’t really tell if he bats an eye.

16:00. He slides an extremely expensive pickled vegetable dish the doctor’s way. Three hours later, it is still there. Dr. Robotnik hasn’t even twitched.

Finally. 23:00. “Sannakji, doctor?”

Dr. Robotnik pauses. Blinks. Turns his head and looks up from his work.

“...do you have a dismembered octopus there, Stone?”

Stone, mouth rudely full of dismembered octopus, nods.

The doctor takes a step away from his desk. It’s like Christmas and payday came early. He’s taking a break. Because of Stone.

Stone executes a quick judo throw with his tongue and catches the tentacle between his teeth. He crunches, hard. The flesh spasms on his tongue. Delicious.

Dr. Robotnik plucks a writhing tentacle off of the plate and considers it. “Did you know that three-fifths of an octopus’ neurons are in its tentacles? And that currently there is no consensus on when the animal is actually dead and incapable of sensing pain?”

Stone swallows. It tickles on the way down. “Yes, doctor.”

Dr. Robotnik considers Stone. “I bet the animal rights activists would have your head.”

“Eh. Not the first time.”

Robotnik skims him up and down, and smiles at whatever it is he sees. “Maehogjeog-in.”

They eat the whole thing.

* * *

Stone doesn’t love Peshawar. It’s a nice city, no doubt, and the food’s fantastic, but it’s not his particular cup of tea.

It’s not the doctor’s either. They’ve been here for five days longer than the operation was supposed to take. A technician fucked a very, very simple B&E and broke one of the doctor’s N3ATniks. Stone had to gently and carefully give the technician the DIPLOC Bag out to Malacca before the doctor finished working out the exact resonance frequency of his atoms to obliterate him with a single air-horn blast. It’s been tense ever since.

The doctor is quickly reaching an impasse. He’s made two Blackwater mercenaries cry since lunch. Now he’s in his lab, staring at the ceiling and grinding his jaw.

He won’t eat. He won’t sleep. He takes calls. He answers emails — rudely, but still. Stone made agnolotti and he barely picked at it. He’s locked the doors to the lab and didn’t even bother withholding Stone’s security credentials.

After due consideration, Stone can see only one solution to the doctor’s frustration. He readies himself at the door, straightening his tie, fussing with his moustache, smoothing down his clothes. He pops a breath mint. Glances up and down the hall and, carefully, discreetly, adjusts his dick so his belt pins the head to his belly.

Okay. Deep breath.

Stone knows what the doctor needs. He walks in, hands at parade rest, body language open and defenseless.

The doctor needs him.

“Stone.” He barely stirs in his seat. He doesn’t need to look to know who’s approaching. “I am not in the mood to indulge little imbecilities. Choose whatever comes out of your mouth very carefully.”

“Yes, doctor. I’m here to report the results of the last field drill.” Stone licks his lips. “9 to 1, badniks. Truly impressive.”

It’s like watching a man touch a third rail. The doctor leaps out of his seat, every muscle clenched, systems straining. His ferocious eyes find Stone.

Stone can read the doctor’s gaze like it’s written on his face. Target acquired.

“You. Think. Ninety percent. Is impressive?”

Stone can’t breathe. Dr. Robotnik doesn’t walk. He prowls, shoulders first, moving his head like some kind of terrible serpent. He speaks through clenched jaws, elocution flawless and furious as he slinks over with his teeth bared.

“Do you seriously think that anything less than ab-so-lute _perfection_ matters to me. I am not ‘impressed’ with ten percentage points of failure, Agent Stone. It is ten more than I will tolerate.”

The doctor comes to a halt, breath fanning down on Stone’s cheeks. Their chests touch briefly, electric, elastic, poles bouncing off each other. Dr. Robotnik’s eyes flash.

“...are you taking an insubordinate posture, Stone?”

Stone melts. He’s so dangerous, when he growls like that.

For a second he wants to nod. Just to see what he’d do. Just to know how Dr. Robotnik would rip him apart.

“No, doctor,” he says.

“Then get your back on the wall. NOW!”

His scapula slam into the steel siding. Dr. Robotnik sweeps down on him like some terrible carrion bird about to rip out his liver. Stone’s eyes unfocus. He can feel the warm rage billowing off of the doctor’s skin across the tiny gap of space between them.

The doctor pants through his nose. He can probably smell the mint and the panic on him. In the blue light of the lab his eyes are such a pale brown they’re nearly yellow. A muscle pings uncontrollably in his jaw.

Stone can’t move. The force of all that genius boring down on him peels him open, second by second.

“Every single machine I create is designed to perfectly and unerringly serve its purpose,” the doctor growls. “That is the point of a robot, Agent Stone— _robota_ , the worker, the drudge. They have a purpose, and a process, and that’s all. They’re pure. They’re diligent. They are perfect.”

Stone swallows. The doctor catches him at it, locking onto the involuntary tell of his undefended throat.

Dr. Robotnik leans close.

Stone’s whole abdomen clenches. He doesn’t know what’s better, the unyielding wall at his back keeping him trapped for the doctor, or the magnetic heat of his looming body. It requires every bit of a lifetime of discipline to keep himself from snapping forward and _devouring_ that cruel, beautiful mouth.

“Human beings are imperfect. They’re stupid, and weak, and fickle. Point-zero-two seconds after they were deployed, not a single one of my robots should have so much as registered the heat of their reeking breath."

"I-it was... airsoft, doctor..."

"I! DON'T! CARE! Those hulking lumps of organic waste you may reasonably call your colleagues should not have stood a chance! They got a lucky shot and broke one of my machines!”

He’s so close. He’s so tense. The doctor is beyond words, now—so far gone that Stone can almost taste it. He holds his breath, staying perfectly still for him. One word, one sound, one more little display of weakness, and he's sure the doctor’s pressure valves would burst.

It takes an iron will to watch the doctor vent on his own. It could go so much faster, be so much better. How helpless Dr. Robotnik would be, driven to animal rage. How fierce. Stone imagines it often. His teeth in Stone’s neck. Scratches, bloody, raked down Stone's back. This incredible, impossible, brilliant, beautiful creature turned disheveled, and debauched, and human, and his.

Everything in Stone wants to take the step. Snap the belt. Lay on that last ounce of coal that makes the furnace melt.

But he knows what the doctor needs. And he can always give it to him.

The moment stretches, razor-thin, terrible like a line of venom clinging to the tip of a fang. Stone holds it for him, watching, certain. Listens to his doctor’s tight, sharp breaths. Observes him, stands with him, and feels this need of his, unreported and unanalyzed and unjudged. Letting him feel his rage. Letting him spill it out between them.

“No. I am not impressed, Stone," the doctor whispers, at last. "I am _riddled_ with fury. Am I making myself abundantly and utterly clear to you."

“Yes, doctor.” He’s never meant any two words more in his life.

“Good.”

Dr. Robotnik takes a step back, blinking a bit and stretching his neck. He rolls his shoulders. Both hands sweep delicately over his hair and smooth down his coat.

“Now, then. Karahi gosht, I think. Plenty of naan. Enough for you, as well. See to it. Then get out.”

Stone blinks heavily, slack against the wall. His veins are full of champagne. The buckle of his belt hurts. “Lamb or goat, doctor?”

“Whatever’s freshest. I want to taste blood in the curry. Go.”

When the doctor is practically sociable the next morning, the drunk and disgraced ex-Marine that heads up the Blackwater team glares at Stone.

“Was that you, lover boy?”

“Of course not,” Stone replies.

* * *

“C’mon in, agent,” Commander Walters smiles. “Grab a seat. I was about to get a cup of coffee. You?”

Oh, shit.

A chatty superior officer is no one's friend. Stone’s lizard brain gives a feeble squawk.

They made him leave his gun and his knife at the security office. All he’s got is the 3v1L 3Y3 for a cufflink. The doctor wouldn’t hear of Stone keeping it in his pocket; he insisted that he at least wear it with a little style.

“Just had a Venti double-double before I arrived,” Stone says, laying a hand on his stomach and a charming smile on his mouth. “But thanks.”

Walters gives him a genial nod and waves a hand to the chair.

“Let me start with my congratulations, agent,” Commander Walters smiles. “A full 26 months in one of the most challenging assignments our field has to offer. The insights in your weekly reports are invaluable. You’ve set the standard, no mistake.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck! “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve impressed a number of very well-placed people, including several of my own colleagues. You've shown real potential in a delicate environment. Ordinarily I'd keep you in place, but it’s irresponsible to burn through bright talent so quickly. I’d like to make you an offer.”

Walters slides a letter across the desk. The insignia of the Special Collections Service is on the envelope.

Despite himself, Stone’s salivary glands kick. It's a job offer. That’s THE job offer: a spot on the Musketeers. People spend their whole careers chasing these. Once you’re in, chances are good you’ll never want to take another job in your whole life: it’s too much fun. They do the vitally necessary close surveillance, burglary, wiretapping, breaking and entering. The _Mission Impossible_ stuff. The Thwart World War III stuff. All the fun of crime with none of the jail time. 

And a pension.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. They’ve got something. They’re planning something. But what?

It’s no secret that the doctor isn’t liked by the brass. Half of the people on the conference calls were only too happy to cut Robotnik out, once they knew his assistant would pay attention instead. There have even been jokes, when they thought Stone was out of earshot, about a Perspex box in the bowels of some secret military prison.

‘It’d be a damn sight easier to ensure compliance with national interests, at least.’ As if there’s a prison that could hold the doctor, unless he wanted to be held.

Fuck. Are they trying to…?

“That’s… a generous offer, sir.”

Walters taps the insignia. “Ha! Sharp eye. More proof if you needed it that you’re the right candidate. You’ve earned it, Stone.”

“I’m flattered, sir.”

“I recognize that you need a day or two to think about it, of course. Talk to your family. It’s a big jump, from field work to these kinds of deployments.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need. I’ll set up a few calls, hm? Get you in touch with your future coworkers. And if you feel it’s better to vet your replacement personally, that's very reasonable. We’ll want to make sure your valuable institutional knowledge remains for the team. After all, you’ve gotten as far under the doctor’s skin as anyone.”

Stone freezes his face. He flicks his eyes up to Walters’ and tilts his head a little. He licks his lips.

Walters’ face creases into a frown. “Just think about it, Stone.”

“I really appreciate it, sir,” he says, “but I’m very content with my current position.”

“I know you are.”

“And— and candidly, sir, I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving a job half-done. I think there’s still a lot I don’t understand about the doctor’s research, but I’m constantly learning more about improving his operations potential.”

“Stone—”

“He got nine more death threats, sir, four pretty credible, and I'm really the best-equipped to handle it since I’ve been with him since he first started looking into the white supremacists. And it’s not that I really honestly think he can’t handle himself or couldn’t fry them like the oily potato-faced shits they are, but—”

“Stone,” Walters snaps.

Stone’s heart hammers. “Why are you removing me?”

The commander raises a hand to his face and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He folds his fingers over his mouth and contemplates Stone for a moment or two. It’s enough to make Stone blush, and that’s enough to make Stone blush, too.

“A few anomalies in the expenses during the Korean trip,” Walters says quietly. “Reports from their team, and some from Mr. Prince’s contingent and others in Peshawar. And observations from my colleagues, as well. There’s no question about your effectiveness, Stone. Only your objectivity.”

“Why?”

Walters flattens his lips and presses them together, hard.

“Emotional transference, I’d imagine,” he says. “Maybe a little hero-worship. Plenty of people get star-struck. Maybe we could’ve seen it coming in your psychological profile.”

Stone clenches his jaws. “I appreciate the offer but I would prefer to remain in my position.”

“If I had the authority to approve that, I wouldn’t. This is what I’m talking about, Stone. Look at yourself like an intelligence officer. Does this seem like an uncompromised person’s rational response?”

Walters lets him sit in the chair for almost two minutes.

“This is a chance for you to have a meteoric career in the SIGINT community, agent. I suspect plenty of people already have a high estimation of your analytical decision-making skills. I’d like to see you prove them right.”

“Am I dismissed, sir?”

“Humor me enough to take the envelope with you.”

Stone snatches it and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.

Walters heaves a sigh. “Get back to me by Tuesday. That’ll be all.”

* * *

Humans are stupid, and weak, and fickle. Pick two.

He’s going to be forced to be fickle. He doesn’t think it would earn him any sympathy to be stupid, too.

* * *

“Doctor, do you have a moment?”

“I do not.”

He’s been doing this long enough now that he knows he wouldn’t be addressed if that were really true. Nothing can penetrate the doctor’s focus if he’s really in the zone. Short of being physically interrupted (a task best handled with gloves, or something will get disintegrated), he’ll work until he’s damn well ready to be interrupted.

“I wanted to mention the email I sent last night. I’m… ” He has to stop and start again. He’s killed people’s widows with less of a lump in his throat. “I’m being reassigned, doctor. At the end of the month.”

There’s a moment, just one, where even he can see the doctor’s brain working. Dr. Robotnik is not a brain disconnected from the body; Stone’s doctor has always been physically expressive, his systems and machines moving as an extension of his body. Now, the fierce backwards snap of his shoulder blades are clear as day, braced too late for the knife in his back, his posture a physical self-rebuke for being comfortable in someone else’s presence.

Stone wants to take it back. He wants to snatch the words out of the air and shove them into his mouth, along with the distant horizon of his potential career, and swallow them. They’re all shit anyway.

Dr. Robotnik’s head snaps to face him, moustache twitched up in a sneer. He springs out of his seat, his smirk of triumph nothing of the kind. His gaze is as focused and clear as it is when he examines one of his specimens. Stone's always hoped to see it turned on him.

But oh, not like this. It’s dizzying to be under the concentrated attention of a genius. For the last two years, Stone’s been dizzy sometimes twice a week.

They’re right. He’s compromised. He’s so fucking compromised. Why does it matter?

Beneath the holoscreen, Dr. Robotnik snaps one of his programs shut with an impatient gloved hand and splits the thin membrane of data that surround his workspace with clawed fingers.

“Oh really?” the doctor drawls, arch with sarcastic interest. Two years may not have earned Stone much, but it’s exposed him to enough scenes of disappointment to know this is what it looks like on the doctor. “The brass finally returned your calls, did they? I bet you just skipped like a lamb to the interview, scrubbed all parade-shiny at the crook of their little fingers. Sent flowers with your thank-you note. And it worked! How many new tours of duty did you have to promise before they condescended to rescue you from your living hell?”

Stone’s heart thuds. He had the drone on him during the whole meeting. The doctor wasn’t spying on him. The doctor doesn’t know.

The thought that he didn’t need to monitor Stone’s actions makes his chest creak.

The doctor trusted him.

“I’ve learned so much, working for you, doctor,” he gabbles. “Honestly, if this weren’t a once-in-a-lifetime—”

“SPARE ME,” the doctor brays, laughing humorlessly at the ceiling. “Maybe once in your lifetime, Stone, puny little footnote in history that you’d be privileged to be. Really, I’m just thrilled for you, agent. This will open up so much more time for you to find some cute little art-enthusiast and pop out an adorable quorum of valueless grist balls for the national mill. I’ll remind you that your position here was once-in-a-lifetime, too, but it didn’t seem to hold your elevated interest.”

Stone brings all his training up from where it seems to live, deep down in his guts. He braces his abdomen, thinking of the muscles around his spine, carefully looking the doctor in his eyes so as not to seem disrespectfully inattentive.

Forget lifetimes. The doctor is once-in-a-world. Stone will mourn him for the rest of his days. If that would bring the doctor any satisfaction, perhaps he would say so; but then, a man of his genius must know that much already.

There's nothing he can do. He lied to the doctor at the start. He’s going to do it again.

“I need a break, doctor,” he murmurs, gaze direct and clear. He wants to read a thousand things in the jut of Robotnik’s jaw.

Dr. Robotnik breathes in and out through his nose, once, tight and fast. There’s something in his expression, something old and pained. It feels like failure.

How could he ever tell him? If Stone spilled his guts, proved how weak and sentimental and _compromised_ he was, the doctor wouldn’t want to keep him. And once he found out about the reports, he’d probably fire Stone himself.

The doctor would not want him, and Stone’s superiors would not accept him, and he would be left with nothing.

Robotnik whirls away, long before Stone has had his fill of his wide, sharp eyes.

“Fine. Put your last day in the calendar and see to your replacement’s instructions. This changes nothing about your daily duties, obviously.”

“Yes, doctor,” he says.

The doctor slaps his hands on the counter, then begins typing with one hand, stroking the desk almost apologetically with the other. The membrane of information enrobes him again.

“Out.”

On the other side of the door, Stone leans his head back and tries to breathe. He’s doing the right thing. He’s doing the smart thing. If the doctor only knew how smart it was, he would respect Stone’s choice.

Maybe even find it ruthless, and efficient. He'd approve.

The U.S. government never meant to give Stone everything he’s ever wanted, but now they’re going to take it all back, inch by intestinal inch.


End file.
